Deep beneath the opulent sprawl of the royal palace, far below the foundation stones steeped in centuries of blood and history, and even deeper than the catacombs where plague victims lay buried in forgotten secrecy, laid a vault.

Theron Vale had been aware of its existence from the moment his gaze fell upon the intricate map etched into the obsidian mirror within the king's most private sanctum. It was a place erased from history, excised from all records, untouched even by the faintest of whispers. This profound obscurity was, to Theron, an irresistible siren's call.

He descended, utterly alone.

Wards, both living and ancient, acknowledged his presence. They recognized him or remembered the ghost of who he once was. The locks yielded to his touch as easily as petals unfurling to the dawn, falling open without resistance. His gloved hands, lined with silver thread, moved with a practiced, silent grace. He uttered no words, not even a murmur to himself, his focus absolute.

When he finally opened the vault, the air within did not rush out; instead, it shuddered, as if the very space had been holding its breath for centuries and was now slowly, tremulously exhaling.

The chamber was hewn from cold, smooth stone, polished as if by divine hands. At its heart sat a basin filled with water as black as a starless night. Arranged around it were relics of immense power, too sacred and too cursed to be easily named. Yet, it was the walls that held Theron’s true prize—the records.

The records weren't inscribed with ink or paint, but etched directly onto mirrored glass. To read them, one had to stare deeply into their own reflection, a disquieting intimacy. They spoke of the war that had ultimately ended the gods, of the truth they had so desperately buried, and of a blood pact Theron himself had once signed with his own divine hand.

The following day, the whispers coalesced, taking on names. They were fractured, contradictory, and utterly impossible.

"You were the archivist." "You were the betrayer." "You were the god who killed with silence."

Theron sought to drown them out, first with wine, then with elaborate rituals, and finally with self imposed isolation. Yet, nothing availed him. The truth spirits had already slipped inside, ancient fragments of divine memory too broken to perish. The more knowledge he gained, the more insistent their chorus grew.

One night, driven by a desperate need, Theron returned to the vault. Blood trickled from his nose, and the skin around his eyes was a bruised black from sleeplessness. It was then that the parasite spoke.

"I remember you."

The voice was not a whisper; it resonated from within his very bones, heavy, hot, and disturbingly intimate.

"I remember your touch. Your signature," the voice continued, the words slithering into his mind. "You signed the decree that ended us. You closed the gates. You broke the chains and became one."

A long silence stretched, like a breath drawn in hell.

“You’ve suffered, Theron. The world is too loud for a mind like yours. Let me give you quiet again. Let me take the burden. Share your mind with me. I can sift the truths. You can rest.”

He stumbled back, one hand flying to his temple as if to ward off a physical blow. Yet, the mirror behind him offered no reflection of his fear. Instead, it displayed an unnerving calm, a profound tranquility.

From the fractured reflection in the mirror, something stepped through—a silhouette of shifting shadow and light, cloaked in the suggestion of wings, its face an ever changing echo of long forgotten gods. You looked at him not with eyes, but with knowing.

"Say yes," your voice purred, each syllable brushing against his thoughts like a caress of both silk and steel, "and I will still call you king."

He should have said no. He meant to say no.

Theron's breath hitched, his entire body beginning to tremble uncontrollably. A ragged sound escaped his throat, his voice cracking as he finally spoke. "...yes."